


Old Man Trouble, I Don't Mind Him

by Liadt



Category: Bulman
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, Pre-Slash, Pretend Wedding, rating for swearing, unconventional courtship 2014, warning for Spice Girls lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since her divorce, fairy cake queen Lucy McGinty prefers baking to boys… until a phone order from a gruff voiced stranger sends her head into a spin. It isn’t until Lucy makes the delivery, she realises there’s only been one man whose voice had such an effect - George Bulman, her scruffy, eccentric ex-partner in detection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Man Trouble, I Don't Mind Him

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to john_amend_all for flagging up the prompt and to swordznsorcery for the idea for fairy cakes instead of cupcakes and botox information.

In the kitchen of Lucy’s modest East London flat, the radio was blaring out the latest top 40 hits. “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends, make it last forever friendship never ends. The number ones are terrible these days, aren’t they, Gershwin?” sang Lucy to her hamster, as she mixed the butter-cream filling for an extra-large batch of fairy cakes. 

On the counter in front of Lucy lay her divorce papers. She mused if she should have her hair cut. That was what divorcees were supposed to do, weren’t they? It was too late anyway - her marriage had ended unofficially a year ago, when she boarded a plane back to Britain. What would have been a simple dissolution was complicated by the two parties living in different countries on separate continents. 

This wasn’t how she had envisaged her future - baking cakes from her kitchen. Working from home, she liked the independence of being self-employed, if not the self-assessment tax forms. While she worked out what she wanted from life, baking gave the outward impression she wasn‘t drifting. 

She had spent the best part of a decade travelling around the globe; experiencing different sights, sounds, spectacles and married ‘The One‘. Unfortunately, ‘The One’ had turned out not to be ‘The One‘. What next, she thought, more unfinished courses, temporary jobs and partners who only wanted to be there on a part-time basis?

Lucy sighed and glanced at her small sink. Thankfully, venues let her use their dishwasher to clean the crockery for her cakes and this order was far larger than normal. A friend of a friend of a friend had heard her father had been a police officer and she’d received an order to make hundreds of fairy cakes, for an ex-policeman’s ball. Without the police connection, she doubted a Michelin starred chef could have won the order from her.

A couple of days ago, a call had come through to her flat. The line was terrible and the voice doubly so. The caller’s voice was awfully hoarse and faint, like George when he’d been shouting too much or trying to shout at all. Lucy smiled to herself at the memory of George Bulman, the ex-copper mate of her father. She’d persuaded him into forming a private detective agency with her. They’d had good times together, ignoring the negative comments about their unconventional friendship and not-as-disreputable-as-it-looked lifestyle. Those were the days, but she had wanted more out of life than limiting herself to the streets of any one city. 

****

Carrying her seventh tray of fairy cakes to the long buffet table, that stretched the length of the drafty convention hall, Lucy heard the muffled sounds of conversation. As the talking increased in volume, she froze when she heard George’s voice coming through the main entrance. What a fool I am, of course, it was George on the phone, thought Lucy. Even after eight years, she recognised his unmistakably raspy tone. She turned away from the table. “George!” she called and waived a dishcloth nervously, at the little party that had arrived. It was definitely him, albeit older, scruffier, if that was possible in a suit, and paunchier. 

George stopped speaking mid-sentence and did a double take. “Lucy!” he exclaimed in surprise, leaving the middle-aged man he was talking to and walked up to her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. What are you doing here?”

“You rang me and ordered six hundred fairy cakes. If you had told me it was you, I would have given you a discount.”

“I ordered them off a Lucy Sanchez, not McGinty. Oh. So you’re married?”

“I was until this morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Should I be sorry?”

Lucy pulled a face. “We separated ages ago; I was waiting for the red tape to be untangled. My ex lives in Venezuela. He looked like a Latino lover from a romance novel and there the similarities ended. It turned out he was a wanker because he was a wanker and not because of the machinations of an evil uncle. His love poetry was above average, though. But, what of you? I came to your flat, when I came back to Britain, but you’d gone.”

“I did write,” said George, sadly. “The PO probably sent it to the wrong continent. I couldn’t stay there. I had the feeling more than one person was listening to my phone calls. I didn’t do too badly out of the sale - enough for a decent sized flat and a nest egg. I’m still mending clocks occasionally. I didn’t fancy going back to being a gumshoe. I’m surprised you’ve set up as a baker, didn’t you want to finish your law degree or carry on with criminology?”

Lucy shook her head. “I tried to make it as a private enquiry agent on my own at first. I found as a lady detective the cases offered to me were mainly honey traps and divorces and I turned them down.”

“That’s very loyal of you.”

“Not particularly, now I’ve hatched a little divorce of my own,” said Lucy, with an ironic smile. “Then I took a job at a big private detective agency. It was a joke; they were the ones who should have been under investigation. They helped villains to find out what information the police had on them and used it to avoid jail. Then there were the commissions from journalists to tap celebrities’ phones for the next day’s big headline grabber.”

“There’s always the police.”

“Ah, but the police is no place for mavericks is it?”

George smiled ruefully, as his words were echoed back at him, and changed the subject. “I guess not. You’ve changed your hair - it’s all flat.”

Lucy put her hand up to her glossy, straight, dark red hair and twisted a strand self-consciously around her finger. “Styles do change, George. I notice you’ve ringed the changes and brushed your hair back instead of forwards. I'm glad some things don't change and the sideburns are still going strong. Is it to please a certain someone?”

“Yeah, me.” And they both laughed together.

“Nah, there’s no market for broken down ex-rozzers.”

“Aw, I’d go for your sideburns,” Lucy gently teased.

“And now, after raising my hopes, you’ll tell me your divorce has left you free to elope with a sheik.”

“It’s just me on my lonesome; I’m afraid, apart from Gershwin.”

“Is he your son?”

“Oh no, he’s my hamster.”

“Hamster? You weren’t keen on Flash, as I recall, you said some unkind words about him,” said George.

“I needed the company,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

“You’ll have to bring him over to mine to meet Flash 2-in-1.”

“Is it called that because he turned out to be a she?”

“You’ve still got a detective's mind, Lucy. Stay as my guest tonight. I‘ll get a dogsbody to sort the buns out,” said George, impulsively.

“Well, as I’m already here… But yes, I’d like to.”

****

George’s face creased up into an appreciative grin. Lucy had returned from the bar with a pint for him. Sliding into a seat next to him, Lucy reflected it was as if they hadn’t been apart and found it oddly comforting. She’d travelled the world to find all she really wanted was to have a pint with a grumpy pensioner, in a drafty conference room with dated décor. Carlos, her ex, would have laughed at her. She was cross at herself for allowing herself to care what Carlos and his perfect abs would think. After all, she hadn’t cared what her old college lecturers said. They had called George seedy when he was the least seedy person she knew.

“You used to run a detective agency with Mr Bulman then?” asked a haughty woman, sat at the same large, round table as her. The woman was dressed in classic wardrobe staples, as worn by Parisian women who only existed in fashion magazines.

“What? Oh, yes, we had quite a reputation,” said Lucy, in surprise at having her thoughts interrupted.

“I can imagine,” said the woman, looking disdainfully down her nose at them. George paid no attention, as he was animatedly discussing the merits of jazz with another ex-cop.

“We had a reputation for solving difficult cases,” said Lucy, coolly. Perhaps, if people had constantly objected to her and Carlos’ relationship, it would have lasted. Everyone said what a good couple they made. Carlos’ mother got over her initial reservations, after she’d coached his younger brother to victory in a regional tango championship. She mentally shook her head, in the end it wouldn’t have altered the fact she disliked being bossed about by Carlos or anyone else for that matter. That was her trouble, she thought, and repressed the desire to stick her tongue out at the woman.

“Will you bring back STG Investigations?” said a tanned, angular man, who had recently joined their table. His friends had gone home and he was killing time before his taxi came.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy, non-committedly, as she sensed something more fulfilling than cake.

“It’s my daughter’s boyfriend, Wayne, you see. I can’t stand the hippy layabout, but my daughter, Becky, loves him to bits. She has been inconsolable since he upped and left without a word. I remember how successful STG were and I want to know what’s become of him, for my daughter‘s sake. She’s convinced something untoward has happened to him, but it’ll probably be something trivial, like being a thoughtless berk.”

George had finishing chatting about music and Lucy caught his eye. “What do you say, George, I’ve no more orders this week - have you any occasional clocks?”

“I wish we had ended STG on a high note and what fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.”

The angular man was baffled.

“We’ll take the job,” translated Lucy.

****

Later that night, in the car park outside, George waved to Lucy as she drove off in her van and walked to the side of the road to see if his cab had arrived. Well, that was a turn up for the books, he thought. He’d never expected to see Lucy again. It was like seeing the sun rise after years of living in the dark. 

He regretted withdrawing from Lucy, when she went to Manchester University, but with all that had happened then, he needed to be on his own. It was his way of coping. Lucy had been a true friend, but he didn’t think she could understand what he was going through at the time. It was a gradual build up of all sorts of things and he didn’t want to dump it on her. It wasn’t fair to expect her to pick up the pieces.

These days, he had mates he bumped into in music clubs and old work colleagues he met at various get-to-togethers, but they were acquaintances really. Not that he minded, he wouldn’t want them up his nose all day. He actually enjoyed the solitude of fixing clocks, alone in his flat. No, his mates weren’t the same as him and Lucy. Take away the music and the shared experience of being a cop he doubted his current friends would talk to him, much less share a flat.

He and his fellow ex-cops had fallen in with each other because no rozzer goes on forever - they have to retire sometime. It was hard to adjust to being in Civvy Street and separated from “their people”. Sitting with a pint, discussing the villains they’d taken off the streets didn’t fill the gap. 

The force had been more than a job; it had been who he was and without it what was he? An old man spending his pension on more cans of beer than he should, if truth were told. Lucy had kept those feelings at bay. A good case made him feel “real” again and she knew where all his quotes came from. In the main, the majority were irritated by the quotations. Not that it stopped him. Philistines.

****

“It’s a bit pokey for running a catering business from isn’t it?” said George, frying sausages in Lucy’s kitchen. 

“I only started a couple of months ago. I‘m aiming to earn enough money to move to larger premises,” said Lucy, sitting at the kitchen table, trying to decipher George’s notes.

“Your landlady’s nice.”

“Is she? All I got from her was dark looks until you visited and she’s straight up here with a packet of sausages asking after your health.”

“Do you think she fancies me or did her daughters leave when they were sixteen, while her sons are still in the familial home?”

“If you roll over to have your tummy tickled, I’m sure she’ll tell you. I’ll stick with searching for Wayne.”

“Did you find anything out from his co-workers at the bird sanctuary?”

“Not a dickey bird,” said Lucy, with a sigh. 

George groaned.

“All I could get out of them was that Wayne was a flake, except when it mattered. If an orphaned chick was in need of feeding, he’d be there round the clock. The staff are puzzled by his disappearance, there was a sick falcon in need of nursing and he didn’t turn up to cover the night shift.”

“Mmm, have you any HP sauce?”

“’Fraid not.”

“You can’t have a sausage sandwich without brown sauce,” protested George, who knew what he liked culinary-wise.

“You’re lucky to get the sausages; otherwise it would have been merely a cup of builder’s tea and a biscuit.”

“I would have thought I merited a cake.”

“Cakes are for clients and I don’t have any in at the moment. I wouldn’t be working on this if I had baking to do. There are eggs in the fridge, if you want to fry one. How did you get on at the squat?”

“Swimmingly, I didn’t even have to use my sandwiches.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, in question.

In response, George picked his plastic carrier bag off the worktop and plonked it down again. It made a dull thud, not dissimilar to a brick. “I need the reinforcements now I’m getting on. The tramp disguise went down well; they offered to let me bed down there for the night. After a couple of jars of homebrew, they told me all about Wayne. He was suspicious of some flash types, in sunglasses, enquiring about rare finches at the sanctuary. They said he’d gone to London Zoo to see if the keepers had seen any shady blokes hanging around and was agitated when he returned. I couldn’t get much more out of the crusties, as certain substances had dimmed their memory. They said he’d become obsessed with Somerset for some reason, they reckoned it was to do with the Glastonbury festival, but I’m not convinced. There’s a bird zoo there isn’t there - Paradise something or other?”

“You’re thinking of Paradise Park and it’s in Cornwall.”

“Near enough. I brought his holdall with me, from his room, in case he’s left any clues in it.”

Lucy picked up the bag, from the floor and started to remove the contents. “I thought it was yours, hmm, unwashed clothes, pieces of paper, loose change, a leaflet promoting the delights of Breycott village in Somerset - Glastonbury is within easy reach it claims, used bus tickets and here we have the entire contents of our missing man’s life. There’s some writing on a page torn from a notebook circled and underlined. It reads; Bristol bird gar-something, the writing tails off. Garl, gard, got it! Garden. Bristol Bird Garden.”

“Right, I think we should pay a visit to Somerset. We can use your van.”

Lucy put down the mug of tea, she was about to drink from. “It’s hot pink, George, with my contact details on. Don‘t you think it would be a trifle incongruous amongst the rolling hills?”

“Haven’t you heard of hiding in plain sight? Who’d suspect a couple of bakers?”

“To which I reply; have you seen ‘Pie in the Sky’?”

George waved a fish slice dismissively. “That’s TV. He’s a serving police officer who runs a restaurant or so my friends tell me. Nothing like us. Where‘s the bread?”

“In the bin marked ‘bread’.”

“Shouldn’t you be making me supper as your honoured guest?” said George, turning around in a circle trying to locate the bread bin.

“I made the tea.” Lucy lifted her mug, to illustrate her point. “Besides, one of the first things you said to me when I moved into the shop was not to mother you.”

“Humph. Living as we are in modern times; it should be a man’s prerogative to change his mind too.”

“I assumed as I was a good bloke you were the woman.” George didn’t bite back - it wasn‘t worth pausing from searching for crockery to reply.

Lucy watched George rummaging through the cupboards. It had been a long time since she had felt this relaxed in another's company. When this case was wrapped up, they would have to meet up and go to jazz clubs, no more falling out of touch.

“Ah! You were having me on.” George emerged from behind the kitchen counter, holding aloft a bottle of HP sauce triumphantly.

“I’d check the best before date, before splodging it on your sandwich. I didn’t buy it,” said Lucy, worrying about the status of her food hygiene certificate.

“It’s not shellfish, it‘s got spices in it; natural preservatives. I remember a girl who used to put pies in a safe, instead of a fridge.”

“That was before I grew up and discovered the joys of food inspectors.”

****

The shop bell rang loudly and Lucy entered Breycott’s village Post Office, to visit Hazel, the postmistress. At the hotel she and George were staying at, Alf the bar man had recommended her as knowing everyone’s business. They had stopped by to talk to her yesterday.

“Hello there, Alf passed my message on then?” greeted Hazel. She was in her mid-forties, with long dyed-black hair, tied up into a messy bun. It was her gesture at looking smart for the customers.

“Yes, thank you. You said you had information for us,” said Lucy, coming up to the counter.

“Isn’t your Dad with you today? He’s not ill is he?”

Lucy winced slightly. “He’s not my Dad, he’s my partner.”

“It’s a May to December affair is it?” asked Hazel, amiably.

“Oh no, George is my business partner.”

“That’s a shame. You look so right together, I thought you must have a close relationship.”

Lucy knew the postmistress could talk the hind legs off a donkey, but curiosity got the better of her. “Funny you should say that. I'm usually asked why I waste my time working with him, followed by attempts to show me the error of my ways.”

“I’m pansexual, you know.”

“Er, good for you,” said Lucy, confused as to what the woman’s sexuality had to do with their investigation.

“In principle. The Universal Mother has seen fit to solely cast men in my path and I don‘t want to lose my current partner. He‘s a keeper.”

“Okaaay, but your information?”

Hazel ignored Lucy’s question. “That doesn’t mean I’m not in favour of any other kind of love. As long as they promise to look after my Pekinese when I’m ill, set rat traps in the barn and don’t go out with girls they meet on the bus, like my ex-husband, I don’t care what anyone looks like or how their chromosomes are arranged. After all, we’re all going to end up saggy and wrinkly in the end. There’s too much misery in the world to deny love, just because it doesn’t match the norms and values of what society deems acceptable. Life isn’t a glossy Hollywood film, don’t you think?” 

“I couldn’t agree more, now your information.”

“I thought you would, a nice, polite girl like you. Here, if you’re still here tonight, we’re having a consciousness raising exercise and blessing after dark. All are welcome to join. Sometimes we hold a hand fasting, a pagan marriage ritual, at the end. Our sessions tend to have that effect.” Hazel pushed a rainbow coloured leaflet, with silhouettes of a dolphin and a stone circle on the cover, into Lucy’s hand.

Lucy muttered her thanks and quicky shoved it into her trouser pocket.

“I expect you’ll want to hear what I know about those sharp-suited twitchers...”

****

In the hotel bar, Lucy flopped into a tub chair next to George, who was sat waiting for her. “Hazel didn’t tell me anything we hadn’t already uncovered at the Bird Gardens. Is it all right to drink on a case? That postmistress has a masters in talking. Which reminds me, if we’re free tonight we’re invited to join a coven to raise our consciousness and indulge in pair-bonding.” Lucy passed the leaflet to him.

George scanned its contents. “Don’t worry, Lucy, these pagans aren’t as racy as the red tops would have you believe. It’s all dowsing and falling into cowpats. Nothing kinky.”

“S&M isn’t required for pair-bonding.”

“I know that. Do we have a choice of partner?”

“She’s got her heart set on marrying the pair of us.”

George looked up briefly, his expression unreadable. “She’s definitely inhaled too much incense. You’re not going to run off and leave me, now I’ve become acceptable?”

“No, of course not,” said Lucy, irritably.

“It could be worth going and harnessing the forces of the supernatural. Pretending to be a couple shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. After all, we were like an old married couple.”

****

On top of a low hill, in front of a copse of scrubby trees, was a small group of locals in robes, planting lit torches into the earth. Lucy felt self-conscious in a borrowed red robe, as Hazel introduced her and George, in a green robe, to her coven. The coven was a mix of different ages and genders, what they did have in common was a lack of interest in the newcomers. Lucy got the feeling this wasn’t the first time Hazel had tried to enlist new recruits and the coven were quite happy with their group as it stood, thank you very much. Lucy was contemplating suggesting to George they slip away behind a rock at a convenient time. They were here to find if the group could help them in their enquiries and uncommunicative pagans were of no use.

Hazel noticed the dearth of enthusiasm as well. “I though as it’s a fine summer’s night, we could hold a hand fasting.”

Instantly, as one, the group perked up. A rotund man, in a brown robe, furrowed his brow. “We could if there was an anniversary due. Vera and Sally have two months before their trial marriage is up.”

“We don’t mind renewing our vows early,” piped up a curly haired woman, who was presumably Vera or Sally.

The man in brown shook his head. “It’s not done.”

“I didn’t mean any of our circle. I mean the new couple,” said Hazel.

Very new, thought Lucy.

The coven looked hopefully at the newcomers. Some of them drew closer. Vera or Sally beamed and said, “Have you really come to be wed? We can offer a good reception.”

“Aye, none better,” said a bald man, with a bushy beard, proudly.

The rest of the coven voiced their support.

Lucy whispered into George’s ear, “What do you think? It’s not as if it’s legally binding and they are very keen. I’d hate to disappoint them.”

George whispered back, “If it helps us find Wayne, why not? I’ve had worse happen to me undercover.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy, affronted.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Any man would be lucky to marry you.”

“I’m worried we won’t be convincing.”

“Put your faith in Hazel’s mystic powers.” Aloud, George said, “We’d be honoured if you’d bless our union.”

****

Backlit by burning torches, Lucy kept still, chin tilted up, gazing into George’s eyes. Their forearms were crossed and she clasped George’s gloveless hands in hers. Wrapped around their hands was a loosely tied cord, which wasn’t dissimilar to a curtain tie back, minus the tassel. She wished she had her hands free - the robe was itchy. Experimentally, she risked rubbing an elbow against her side. Lucy was sure the circle’s members wouldn’t assassinate them if they thought she was squirming in embarrassment, instead of tactile irritation, but the flaming torches made her uneasy. George rubbed a reassuring thumb along her hand. Lucy hoped he could tell she had changed her smile to a genuine one. He could be a typical bloke at times, if you could call him typical, when it came to dealing with emotions, but he did try which was one of the reasons she loved him.

Oh dear, thought Lucy, at the revelation. Was it true - did staring deep into someone’s eyes make you fall in love with them? She didn’t consider herself slow on the uptake; all her lecturers had commented on how quick she picked up the key points of an academic argument. Taking a decade to fall in love was very tortoise-like. Still, if she had applied her academic intelligence to her love life she wouldn’t have fallen for Carlos. His constant talk of love was seductive - if she was honest, she had fallen in love with a romantic ideal and not the man. Initially, she enjoyed their passionate arguments, followed by great make-up sex, but the constant rowing left her exhausted and frustrated that sex initiated in any other way wasn’t as mind-blowing. Standing here, holding George’s warm hands was weirdly preferable.

She knew what she felt when she looked into his eyes needed no approval or disapproval from others. She knew George better than anyone else. She was his and he was hers, if only as very strong friends, but she could soon change his mind.

Change the mind of a man who hadn’t made her uncomfortable at any point in their friendship or taken advantage when she arrived alone, penniless and naïve in London. Lucy’s brief flash of certainty faded. Was the combination of the atmosphere of the ceremony, nostalgia and disappointment over her failed marriage affecting her judgement? Perhaps, in the cold light of day she would realise they weren’t meant to be anything other than friends.

When the High Priestess untied their bonds and announced George could kiss the bride, Lucy wasn’t sure if she was relieved or dismayed the kiss was a chaste one on the lips.

The bald, bearded man and Hazel came forward and placed a broom in front of the newly weds. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Ron, the Landlord of the local pub. If you’ll hold hands and jump over the broom, we can go to the reception. Whenever we have a hand fasting at night we hold the reception afterwards - it’s a lock-in really. You’re lucky tonight’s bingo night; there’ll be plenty of sandwiches left over. We were going to save them for the builders, who are doing our new conservatory.”

Lucy grinned at George, he grinned back. The coven weren’t incurable romantics; they wanted a wedding for the booze and nibbles afterwards.

“We’re very grateful for your hospitality,” said Lucy.

“Think nothing of it. I’m always first up for a party, especially if it increases takings,” said Ron.

****

The coven and the happy couple reconvened at The Seven Strawberries public house. Inside it was charmingly traditional, in the way a place is when it hasn’t been touched for decades. There was a roaring log fire in the main hearth, in defiance of the balmy summer weather and common sense. A couple of fiddles and an acoustic guitar had appeared out of nowhere and one corner of the pub was holding its own impromptu folk gig.

“George helped me get over my ex and you know how these things develop,” said Lucy, telling the only lie of the night. All the details about how they met and reunited later was true, even if the timeline was stretched, by months instead of days. The required beaming was easy too, although George’s was probably because he hadn’t opened his purse to buy a pint all night.

“What brings you all the way down here?” asked a small, wiry man, in a flat cap. He was sat on the plush, maroon bar bench alongside her. 

“We’re hunting a pair of well tailored twitchers who aren’t twitchers and a missing boyfriend. Have you seen any strangers acting suspiciously?” Lucy’s head may have been in a spin over George, but she remembered why they had temporarily joined the coven.

“Aye, being the gamekeeper hereabouts, I see all sorts when folk think there’s no other soul awake. There’s a pair of city types who meet a boat once a month at Balencombe harbour. They take a delivery of boxes, with pictures of musical instruments on them, but I doubt the contents match. They don’t unload many boxes - they’re probably knock off ciggies, if you ask me. You’ve timed it right, anyways; a shipment is due Wednesday morning. They come during the false dawn, soon as the sun rises they’re gone,” said the wiry man.

****  
In the queue for the Gents, George mused on the night’s events. He didn’t think he’d participate in any more pretend weddings if it made him think of his partner in an unholy way. Well, not so much unholy, as considering a less professional meaning of the word ‘partner’. 

If he’d been an undercover rozzer today, he could be having these thoughts about Willis. Thankfully, living through unenlightened times meant Willis had to carry a female cop over the threshold on an operation. It was more likely he’d have to carry Willis, taking in to account height and size. Would imagining what it would be like to be married to Lucy as silly as considering Willis as a partner? George shuddered at the very idea of declaring undying love to Willis. It was a natural reaction, he supposed, viewing Lucy in a different light when trying to act all lovey-dovey and parroting vows of the heart with your best friend.

He thought back to the ex-policeman's do, he knew it was an awful reaction, but he was secretly pleased Lucy was single. Not that he’d had any designs on her when she told him - she could do better than a tired out ex-cop. He fretted if she'd had the perfect husband she wouldn’t have bothered with more than a 'Hello' at the hall and disappeared into the marital home never to be seen again. It didn’t stop him being angry at Carlos for failing Lucy. Of course, he’d only heard Lucy’s side of the story, but nah, he’d taken something out of the girl and he’d never forgive the bloke.

****

Lucy was still chatting with the gamekeeper when George returned with a tray of drinks.

“’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello, what’s all this wifey? Playing away already?” said George. 

“I’d best be letting you get back to your husband,” said the gamekeeper, vacating the seat in favour of George, but not before getting a kiss off the bride.

“We’re getting closer, George,” said Lucy, excited by the gamekeeper’s information.

George raised his eyebrows and a pint. 

“From what the gamekeeper tells me, those twitchers are smugglers.”

“That’s interesting. His unseen opo, the local poacher, sidled up to me in the loos.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on you husband,” said Lucy, tipsily, putting her arm through George’s. He then obligingly moved his face nearer hers, so she could hear him speak clearly over the noise of the music. 

“Oh, how adorable - whispering sweet nothings,” said Hazel, in the background, misinterpreting what George was saying into Lucy’s ear. A balloon also popped, but it could have been Hazel.

“On his way to the butcher’s, with purloined game to sell, my unnamed snout saw our two naughty boys carrying boxes to the music shop. He was confused by their behaviour as they keep taking boxes of saxophones there. He reckons there’s no market for them round here: it’s all fiddles and tambourines. Hey-nonney-non stuff,” said George.

“I think it’s high time we called in the authorities. There’s something fishy going on. I hope Wayne’s lying low and not wearing a concrete boot at the bottom of Balencombe jetty.”

****

Down in the chocolate box, seaside village of Balencombe a flask of stewed tea had been procured from a passing angler. Lucy and George took turns to drink out of the flask’s lid. They were sat on the harbour wall, next to an ambulance flanked by police cars.

“I don’t know what you were thinking of George - you’re not Heracles,” chided Lucy.

“Though I have more flesh, I am not as frail,” misquoted George, holding a packet of frozen peas, from a chippy, to the side of his face. He would have a fine black eye tomorrow. “I’m a pacifist - I was defending myself. The other bloke went for me first. It’s not my fault he ended up worse off. How’s Wayne?”

Lucy stood and peered into the ambulance. “For a man who has spent the last week gagged and bound, in the hull of a boat, remarkably well.”

One of the police officers, a woman in her thirties with her hair in a French plait, came across to them. She took her notebook out. “Ahem, Mr Bulman, Mrs Sanchez,” she read off her notes. “I believe you will be eligible for a reward, for assisting in the capture of smugglers of endangered species and the return of stolen finches. The relevant body will be in touch with you in due course. If you find yourselves in a similar situation again, I advise you to contact the police earlier in your private enquiries. You were fortunate to escape with a black eye, Mr Bulman. Now if you will excuse me, I will see if the kidnap victim is in a fit state for questioning.” Having finished with them, the police officer climbed into the back of the ambulance. 

“No good deed goes unpunished,” grumbled George.

“Never mind, with any luck they’ll sell you one of the saxophones, used to smuggle the birds in, at a knock down price.”

George grunted in reply. He didn’t respond well to being treated like an ignorant civilian by the police.

****

Lucy waited in the corridor outside George’s flat, for him to open the front door. In her arms, she held a cardboard box containing a detective kit of items borrowed from him. The kit included items like binoculars, mini-tape recorders and a long lens camera. 

It had been a fortnight since she’d seen him, after returning from solving the case of the missing boyfriend. Claiming she was busy fulfilling a series of large orders gave her the perfect excuse not to socialise. She’d put the space between them to try to work out which side of the line between love and friendship her feelings lay. Finding absence made the heart grow more confused, she pretended she’d finished her fake order of cakes and called George to check he was in at home and open to visitors.

George swung the door open. “Wotcha, Lucy! I thought you’d gone on your toes again,” he said, cheerfully. His face fell when he saw the contents of the box. “There’s no need to return everything so soon.”

Lucy stepped into the flat and carefully placed the box on a table, next to a cobwebby pile of old clock movements. “Morning, George. As I was coming to collect my half of the reward money, I thought I might as well return these. Now the case is closed, I don’t have much use for a pair of binoculars - the view from my flat improves the less I see of it.”

“Didn’t you enjoy cracking the case?”

“I did, but you said you wanted to end STG on a high.”

“We could improve on catching a pair of budgie smugglers.”

Lucy arched an expressive eyebrow. “Is this a not-very-veiled invitation to re-open STG Investigations?” 

“How about it then?”

“I accept your invitation, but on condition we won’t accept any old case, while I build up my baking business,” said Lucy, with false coolness.

“I don’t recall us lowering our standards in the past.”

“I’m not sure “no divorce cases” counts as a standard,” she pointed out.

George shrugged, smiled and pulled two tickets out of the top pocket of his denim shirt. “I think we should celebrate the re-ignition of STG with a works outing. These are comps from Wayne and his squat mates to see their band at The Paradise Club. It promises to be a funky fusion of jungle and rock.”

Lucy looked dubious.

“A fusion of bleeding and awful?” he suggested.

Lucy nodded.

“I’ll ask if they’ll swap them for tickets to bingo night.”

“You know how to treat a girl, George,” said Lucy, brightly.

“And then we can discuss how best to introduce Flash and Gershwin to one another.”

“Naturally, they’ll become inseparable and we’ll have to move in with one another, while they train to be the first hamsters to enter the Olympic table-tennis doubles team.”

“Well, why not?” 

“Why not what?”

"Erm," said George, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, as he mentally composed what he was going to say next. “I know it’s not ideal and I hope you don’t see it as a backward step in life, now you’re an adult, but would you want to move in with me? Until you earn enough to rent out somewhere bigger. You have to admit my kitchen is more suitable for running a catering enterprise from. It has space for starters."

“I’m not in danger of missing my rent and being evicted, if that’s why you’re offering,” Lucy said, a tad defensively.

“I know you can’t ever go back, but I’m a selfish, old bugger and I miss having you around. I’m not offering because I think you’re a charity case.”

“If that’s how you feel, George, you know me: I’m just the girl who can’t say no.”

George beamed.

“But what do you mean by saying ‘now you’re an adult’? I wasn’t a teenage runaway.”

George didn’t look too convinced. “We have seen better days,” he began, before Lucy cut in to stop him reeling off a longer quote.

“You might think so, personally, I don’t agree. Maybe you can’t ever go back because you’ll find things have changed for the better.”

****

_One month later_

Lucy and George were squeezed in the gap between two kitchen cupboards. A sheet of paper, containing vital evidence, had slipped down the back of the cabinets. They had pulled the fridge-freezer out in an attempt to retrieve the paper. 

“Being this close reminds me of when we were hand fasted. Did you have any funny thoughts during the ceremony?” asked Lucy.

“I considered what it would be like to wed Willis and decided I’d rather marry you. Have you something like a long, thin pair of tongs?” said George, finding his arm too wide to slide down the gap between the wall and the kitchen unit. 

“I dwelt on my relationship with Carlos and found holding hands with you infinitely preferable to having sex with him,” said Lucy, matter-of-factly.

“That’s nice," said George, absently. 

“George! Did you hear a word I just said?” This wasn’t quite the reaction she expected.

“Shh, can you hear that?” said George, who had been distracted by the sound of a small ball being hit back and forth. He got off his hands and knees to investigate. Lucy followed him to the other room with a determined look on her face.

_Twenty minutes later_

“Never in a million years did I think this would happen,” said a stunned George, as the sound of a bouncing ping-pong ball slowed to a stop.

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics taken from ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls (Beckham/Brown/Bunton/Chisholm/Halliwell/Rowbottom/Stannard)
> 
> Written for _Unconventional Courtship_. Inspired by Prompt #147: 'One More Kiss' - Katherine Garbera.  
>  Since her divorce, cupcake queen Alysse Dresden prefers baking to boys… until a phone order from a sexy-voiced stranger melts her insides like butter. It isn’t until Alysse makes the delivery, she realises there’s only been one man whose voice had such an effect - her mysterious, gorgeous ex-husband.


End file.
